



Bv bequest of 

William Lukens Shoemaker 



Jul 



/V96 w 



POEMS. 



POEMS 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 

»! 



POET LAUREATE. 



EIGHTH EDITION. 



LONDON : 
EDWAKD MOXON, DOYEK STKEET. 

1853. 






<50 



LONDON : 
BRADBURY AND EVAN S, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, 

Gift. 

W, L. Shoemaker 
7 S f 06 



lo 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Reyeked, beloved — you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Eoyal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter' d nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
Eor tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day ! 

May children of our children say, 
' She wrought her people lasting good ; 

' Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 

God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife and Queen ; 

' And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 



TO THE QUEEN. 

' By shaping some august decree, 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 

And compass' d by the inviolate sea.' 

March, 1851. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
CLARIBEL ' . . . .3 

LILIAN 5 

ISABEL . 7 

MARIANA 9 

TO . 13 

MADELINE , . 15 

SONG. — THE OWL 17 

SECOND SONG. — TO THE SAME 18 

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS . . .19 

ODE TO MEMORY 26 

SONG 31 

ADELINE 33 

A CHARACTER 36 

THE POET . . 38 

THE POET'S MIND 41 

THE SEA-FAIRIES 43 

THE DESERTED HOUSE 45 

b 



x CONTENTS. 

Page 

THE DYING SWAN 47 

A DIRGE , .... 49 

LOVE AND DEATH 52 

THE BALLAD OP ORIANA 53 

CIRCUMSTANCE 57 

THE MERMAN . . . • 58 

THE MERMAID 60 

SONNET TO J. M. K. 62 

J THE LADY OF SHALOTT J) 5 

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 73 

ELEANORE 78 

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER . . . . . .85 

FATIMA 96 

(ENONE 98 

THE SISTERS 109 

TO : . . . Ill 

the palace of art 112 

lady clara vere de vere 126 

the may queen 130 

new-year's eve 134 

CONCLUSION 138 

_\ THE LOTOS-EATERS . . \14l2 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 150 

MARGARET 163 

THE BLACKBIRD 166 

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR 168 

TO J. S 171 



CONTENTS, xi 

Page 
"YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE," . . .175 

"OF old sat fkeedom on the heights," . . . 177 

" LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE EAR-BROUGHT "- . 179 

THE GOOSE . . 184 

THE EPIC 189 

MORTE D'aETHUE 191 

THE GAEDENER'S DAUGHTER J OE, THE PICTURES . . 203 

DORA 214 

AUDLEY COURT 221 

WALKING TO THE MAIL 225 

EDWIN MOERIS; OR, THE LAKE 230 

ST. SIMEON STYLITES 236 

THE TALKING OAK 245 

LOVE AND DUTY . . . . . . . . 258 

THE GOLDEN YEAR 262 

ULYSSES 265 

^Alocksley hall 268 * 

GODIVA 285 

the two voices . . 289 

the day dream : — 

prologue 312 

the sleeping palace .313 

the sleeping beauty 315 

the arrival 317 

the revival 318 

the departure 320 

MORAL . . . 321 



xii CONTENTS. 

Page 

the dat dream: — 

l'envoi 322 

epilogue 325 

AMPHION 326 

r^ ST. AGNES 331 

SIR GALAHAD 333 

EDWARD GRAY 337 

WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE . . . 339 

TO , AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS . . 350 

TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE .... 352 

LADY CLARE 354 

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 358 

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE . . . . 362 

A FAREWELL 364 

THE BEGGAR MAID 365 

THE VISION OF SIN 366 

* COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD " 376 

THE EAGLE 376 

" MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, AND LEAVE " . . 377 

" BREAK, BREAK, BREAK," 378 

THE poet's SONG 379 



POEMS. 



(published 1830.) 



POEMS. 



CLAEIBEL. 

A MELODY. 
1. 

Whebe Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

2. 
At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 
About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh, 
And looketh down alone. 

b2 



CLAEIBEL. 

Her song the lint white swelleth, 
The clear- voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



LILIAN. 

— f — 
1. 
Airy, fairy Lilian, 
Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love ine, 
Claps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me, 
Cruel little Lilian. 



"When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs 
She, looking thro 5 and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent- arch, so cunning- simple. 
From beneath her gather d wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 

Then away she flies. 



LILTA1S". 



Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gaiety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

"When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 

Pry thee weep, May Lilian. 

4. 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairv Lilian. 



ISABEL. 

1. 
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread, 
Madonna- wise on either side her head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Eevered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead. 

2. . . 
The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character' d in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 



8 ISABEL. 

To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, bnt a most silver now 

Of snbtle-paced counsel in distress, 
Eight to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 

"Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 

3. 
The mellow' d reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swifter movement and in purer light 

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother : 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not another 
(Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten' d purity. 



MAEIANA. 

" Mariana in the moated grange." — Measure for Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, "lam aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 



10 MARIANA. 

After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, "lam aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 



Upon the middle of the night, 

"Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 



About a stone-cast from the wall 
A sluice with blacken' d waters slept, 

And o'er it many, round and small, 
The cluster' d marish-mosses crept. 



MAEIA1STA. 11 

Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 



And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "lam aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 



All day within the dreamy house, 
The doors upon their hinges creak' d ; 

The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek' d, 



12 MAIM AN A. 

( )r from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer' d fchro 1 tlie doors, 

Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called herfrom without. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He eoiuetli not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would bhat I were ilciuW" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow eloek ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
Athwart bhe chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his western bower. 
Then, said she, " 1 am very dreary, 

lie will not eome," she said ; 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God. that I were dead!" 



13 



TO . 

1. 
Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts at wain 
The knots that tangle human creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Bay-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 

2. 
Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : 

Fair- fronted Truth shall droop not now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 

Can do away that ancient lie ; 

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 



14 TO . 

3. 

Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 

And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 
Until the breaking of the light, 

Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Tabbok brook the livelong night, 

And heaven's mazed signs stood still 

In the dim tract of Penuel. 



15 



MADELINE. 



1. 
Thotj art not steep' d in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 

Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Eevealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
"Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know ? 
Erowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine, 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 

Erom one another, 

Each to each is dearest brother : 



16 MADELINE. 

Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 

3. 
A subtle, sudden name, 
By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances ; 
When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger' d shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 

But, looking fixedly the while, 
All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden- curved frown. 



17 



SONG.— THE OWL. 

1. 

When cats run home and light is come. 

And dew is cold npon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb. 

And the whirring sail goes round, 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 

2. 
When merry milkmaids click the latch, 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his ronndelay, 
Twice or thrice his ronndelay : 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfrv sits. 



18 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 



Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot, 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
"Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight, 

That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 

2. 
I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 

But I cannot mimick it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthen' d loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 



19 



RECOLLECTIONS 



THE AKABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 

In the silken sail of infancy, 

The tide of time flow'd back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time : 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 



20 RECOLLECTIONS OF 

By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear- stemm'd platans guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter' d, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar' d palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 



THE AKABIA^ NIGHTS. 21 

Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro 5 little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver- chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro 5 many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-colour 5 d shells 
Wander 5 d engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 

With disks and tiars, fed the time 

With odour in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



22 RECOLLECTIONS OF 

Far off, and where the lemon-grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess' d 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 

Apart from place, withholding time, • 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber' d : the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendour from behind 
Flush' d all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-flame j 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 23 

With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 

So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer 5 d lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time, 

In honour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares A 

From the long alley's latticed shade 

Emerged, I came upon the great 

Pavilion of the Caliphat. 

Eight to the carven cedarn doors, 

Elung inward over spangled floors, 

Broad-based flights of marble stairs 

Ran up with golden balustrade, 



24 KECOLLECTIO^S OF 

After the fashion of the time, 
And humour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of name, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow- vaulted dark, and stream' d 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time, 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



THE AEABTA^' EIGHTS. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper 5 d 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter- stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride, 

Sole star of all that place and time ? 

I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Habott:*" Aleaschid ! 



26 



ODE TO MEMOKY. 

1. 

Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

2. 
Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soften' d light 

Of orient state. 
Whiiome thou earnest with the morning mist. 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, 
When she, as thou. 



ODE TO MEMORY. 

Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



3. 
Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, 

And with the evening cloud, 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 

Never grow sere, 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 

Because they are the earliest of the year) . 
IN"or was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and the cope 

Of the half-attain' d futurity, 

Though deep not fathomless, 
Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought w r as there of life's distress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, 



28 ODE TO MEMOES. 

Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



4. 
Come forth I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 

Unto mine inner eye, 

Divine st Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn, 
The filter' d tribute of the rough woodland. 

! hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 



ODE TO MEMORY. 29 

Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 

Upon the ridged wolds, 
When the first matin-song hath waken' d loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 

5. 
Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 



30 ODE TO MEMORY. 

The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 

Ever retiring thon dost gaze 

On the prime labour of thine early days : 

No matter what the sketch might be ; 

"Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, 

Or even a sand-built ridge 

Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 

Overblown with murmurs harsh, 

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 

Stretch' d wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, 

"Where from the frequent bridge, 

Like emblems of infinity, 

The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; 

Or a garden bower' d close 

"With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near 

Purple- spiked lavender : 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

From weary wind, 

With youthful fancy reinspired, 

We may hold converse with all forms 

Of the many-sided mind, 

And those whom passion hath not blinded, 

Subtle-thought ed, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone, 



SOjS-G. 31 



Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 

1. 

A spieit haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 

In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



32 SONG. 

2. 
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily haugs the tiger-lily. 



33 



ADELINE. 



1. 

Mysteet of mysteries, 
Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
But beyond expression fair 
"With thy floating flaxen hair ; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

2. 
Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline, 

And a rose-bush leans upon, 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 



34 ADELINE. 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine. 

Spiritual Adeline ? 

3. 
What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art*not all alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

4. 
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 



ADELINE. 35 

His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
"What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften' d, shadow' d brow, 

And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 

Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 

5. 
Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn, 
- Dripping with Sabsean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy lace, 
While his locks a- dropping twined 
Bound thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



d2 



A CHAEACTEE. 



With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass, 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 

Then looking as 'twere in a glass, 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 



A CHARACTER. 37 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass' d human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress' d as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



38 



THE POET. 

— ♦ — 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower' d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And wing'd with name, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, 

And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
Filling with light 



THE POET. 39 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 

Where'er they fell, behold, 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 
Eare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
"When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
Melted like snow. 



40 THE POET. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in name 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 

And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword 

Of wrath her right arm whirl' d, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with Ms word 
She shook the world. 



41 



THE POET'S MIND. 

1. 
Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With th y shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

2. 
Dark-brow' d sophist, come not anear; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 



42 THE POET S MIND. 

Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
You never would hear it ; your ears are so dull ; 
So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



43 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 



Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw. 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam.. 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they mused. 
"Whispering to each other half in fear. 
Shrill music reach' d them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away r fly no 

more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and the happy 

blossonung shore r 
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls ; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
Erom wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery- crimson shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails. 
Come hither to me and to me : 



44 THE SEA-EAIKIES. 

Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
And merrily merrily carol the gales, 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
And sweet is the colour of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
hither, come hither, and be our lords 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : 
listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Euns up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? 
Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly 
no more. 



45 



THE DESEETED HOUSE. 

1. 

Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 

2. 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

3. 

Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



46 THE DESEKTED HOUSE. 

4. 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



5. 
Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 
A mansion incorruptible. 

Would they could have stayed with us ! 



47 



THE DYING SWAN. 

1. 
The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
AVide, wild, and open to the air, 
Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 
"With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold- white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 



48 THE DYING SWAN. 

Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro' the marish green and still 
The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 

3. 
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky, 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
"With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 
And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



49 



A DIKGE. 

1. 
Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



2. 

Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



50 A DIRGE. 

3. 

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chaunteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



4. 
Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 
The woodbine and eglatere 
Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Eain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



5. 
Eound thee blow, self-pleached deep. 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



A DIKGE. 51 

6. 
The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Bare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

7. 
Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



e 2 



52 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; 

"When, turning round a cassia, full in view 

Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 

And talking to himself, first met his sight : 

" You must begone," said Death, "these walks are mine.'* 

Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; 

Tet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : 

Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 

Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 

So in the light of great eternity 

Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 

The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, 

But I shall reign for ever over all." 



53 



THE BALLAD OF OEIANA. 



My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 



54 THE BALLAD OP OKIANA. 

Iii the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch 5 d my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 



THE BALLAD OF OBIA>~A. 55 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space. 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepen' d in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd ine where I lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away. 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod rne into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana ! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou r whom dost thou seek. 

Oriana ? 



56 THE BALLAD OF OEIANA. 

I cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



57 



CIKCUMSTASTCE. 

Two children in two neighbour villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 
Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, 
Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour, 



53 



THE MERMAN. 

— + — 

1. 
"Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Singing alone 
Tinder the sea, 
With a erown of gold, 
On a throne ? 



I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 
"With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower ; 
And holding them back by their flowing locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, 

Chasing each other merrily. 



THE MERMAN. 59 

3. 
There would be neither moon nor star ; 
But the wave would make music above us afar — 
Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nor star. 
We w T ould call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between, 

All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



60 



THE MEBMAID. 



1. 
"Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
"With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 

2. 
I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 
" Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? " 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 

Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 



THE MERMAID. CI 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate 
"With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
"Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away. away. 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks. 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 

With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. 

On the broad sea- wolds in the crimson shells. 

Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 

From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list. 
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 
They would sue me. and woo me, and flatter me. 
In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry me. 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 



62 SOCKET TO J, M. K. 

In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 

Then all the dry pied thing3 that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet silently, 

All looking up for the love of me. 

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 

Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 

All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 



My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be 

A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 

To scare church- harpies from the master's feast ; 

Our dusted velvets have much need of thee ; 

Thou art no sabbath- drawler of old saws, 

Distill' d from some worm-canker' d homily ; 

But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 

To embattail and to wall about thy cause 

With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 

The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 

Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 

Erow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne 

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 



POEMS. 



PUBLISHED 1832. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



PART L 
Os either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye. 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road rims by 

To many-tower d Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Bound an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 



66 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

By the margin, willow-veil' d, 
Slide the heavy barges trail' d 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail' d 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the. bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
Prom the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower' d Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy 

Ladv of Shalott." 



PART II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 67 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

"Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village- churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair' d page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower' d Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 

F 2 



68 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 



PART III. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A redcross knight for ever kneel' d 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter' d free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot \ 
And from his blazon' d baldric slung 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 69 

A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewelTd shone the saddle-leather. 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning name together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight giow'd : 
On burnish' d hooves his war-horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet now'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash' d into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 



70 THE LADY Or SHALOTT. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack' d from side to side ; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



PART IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower' d Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 71 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken' d wholly, 

Turn'd to tower 5 d Camelot ; 
For ere she reach' d upon the tide 
The first house by the water- side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 
By garden-wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by, 
A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 



72 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross' d themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



73 



MAEIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

— ♦ — 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mar j," made she moan, 

And "Ave Mary," night and morn, 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 

Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 



74 MAEIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

To left and right, and made appear, 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and morn ; " 

And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady murmur' d she ; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and morn ! 
And "Ah," she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 
JNFor any cloud would cross the vault, 

But day increased from heat to heat, 
On stony drought and steaming salt ; 



MABIANA IN THE SOUTH. 75 

Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower moan, 

And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
Tell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper' d, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 
Old letters, breathing of her worth, 

For " Love," they said, "must needs be true, 
To what is loveliest upon earth." 



76 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone for evermore." 

" O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
" And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

"But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn. 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 

Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 
And lean'd upon the balcony. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 77 

There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter' d on her tears, 
And deepening thro' the silent spheres, 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



78 



ELEANOEE. 



1. 
Thy dark eyes open'd not, 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, 
Eor there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Ear off from human neighbourhood, 

Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades, 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 

The oriental fairy brought, 



ELEAKOKE. 79 

At the moment of thy birth, 
Prom old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow 5 d coves on a sunny shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 

2. 
Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 
Eed thee, a child, lying alone, 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 

3. 
Who may minister to thee ? 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 

On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken' d from the light, and blinded 

With many a deep-hued bell-like flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 



80 ELEANORE. 

Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore ! 

4. 
How may full-sail' d verse express, 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee ? For in thee 

Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 
To an unheard melody, 



ELEAXOKE. 81 



Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
Of richest pauses, evermore 

Drawn from each other mellow- deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 



5. 
I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love- deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Grazing on thee for evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



6. 
Sometimes, with most intensity 
Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 
Slowly awaken' d, grow so full and deep 



82 ELEANOKE. 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower' d quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light : 

As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 

To a full face, there like a sun remain 

Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself to what it was before ; 
So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 

7. 
As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 

Eoof 'd the world with doubt and fear, 
Floating thro 5 an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch' d by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 

Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow forth the banks at will : 



ELEANOKE. 83 

Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 

And the self- same influence 

Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken' d, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee, 

And so would languish evermore, 

Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, 
"While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 

While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

Prom thy rose-red lips my name 
Ploweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 

g2 



84 ELEANORE. 

"With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my colour, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from thee ; 

Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



85 



THE MILLEE'S DAUGHTER 



I see the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
Seem'd half- within and half- without, 

And full of dealings with the world ? 



In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver cup- 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
"With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 



THE MILLEB-'S DAUGHTER. 

Tet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we mnst die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same day. 



Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 



To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 



THE MILLER S DAUGHTER. 87 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream' d that pleasant dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 



Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise, 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones, 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 



But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('Twas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnnts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 



THE MILLEE S DAUGHTER. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song, 

That went and came a thousand times. 



Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch' d the little circles die; 
They past into the level flood, 

And there -a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 



For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 

That these have never lost their light. 



THE MILLER S DAUGHTER. 

I loved, and love dispell' d the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess' d the atmosphere, 

And filTd the breast with purer breath. 
My mother thought, "What ails the boy ? 

For I was alter' d, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 



I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 



And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer' d cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 



90 THE MILLEE S DAUGHTEE. 

The deep brook groan' d beneath the mill ; 

And "by that lamp," I thought, "she sits!" 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam' d to the flying moon by fits. 
" O that I were beside her now ! 

O will she answer if I call ? 
O would she give me vow for vow, 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 



Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross' d the blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken 'd there. 



But when at last I dared to speak, 

The lanes, you know, were white with may, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 

Flush' d like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, 

You would, and would not, little one ! 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 

And you and I were all alone. 



THE MILLEB 3 DAU&HTEE. 91 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

I might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 

Her eyelid quiver' d as she spake. 



And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears. 

I kiss'd awav before thev fell. 



I watch' d the little nutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see : 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press' d you heart to heart. 



92 THE MILLER S DAUGHTER. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
"When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 



It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear : 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 



And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 



THE MILLEE S DAr&HTER. 93 

A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

Tor all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now. in truth 

You must blame Love. His early rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art. 
"Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half- anger' d with my happy lot, 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Eorget-me-not. 



Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget ?- 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 



THE MILLER S DAUGHTER. 

Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget : 
Ah, no ! no ! 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Bound my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch' d with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 

Yet tears they shed : they had their part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With farther lookings on. The kiss, 
The woven arms, seem but to be 

Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 
The comfort, I have found in thee : 



THE MILLEBS DAUGHTER. 95 

But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought. 

With blessings which no words can rind. 

x^rise, and let us wander forth, 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is drv and dewless. Let us 20. 



96 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! withering might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parch'd and wither' d, deaf and blind, 

I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roll'd among the tender flowers : 

I crush' d them on my breast, my mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver' d in my narrow frame. 



FATIHA. 

Love, fire ! once lie drew 

With one long kiss iny whole soul thro 5 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 

He cometh quickly : from below 

Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 

Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Paints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 
All naked in a sultry sky, 
Droops blinded with his shining eye : 
I will possess him or will die. 

1 will grow round him in his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp 'd in his embrace. 



(ENONE. 



Thebe lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 

The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Grargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning : but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas and Ilion's column' d citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 



(EFOKE. 99 

Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- shade 
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain 5 d Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many- fountain' d Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me Earth, hear me Hills, Caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake! mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River- God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder wails 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather' d shape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

h2 



100 (ENONE. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain' d Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn w r as dewy-dark, 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn' d, white-hoove d, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent eall'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
Droop 1 d from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster' d about his temples like a God's ; 
And his cheek brighten' d as the foam-bow brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listen' d, the full-flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own (Enone, 



(ENOKE. 101 

Beautiful-brow' d CEnone, mj own soul, 

Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 

" For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, 

As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 

The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 

Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
And added ' This was cast upon the board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Eanged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Eose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 



102 (E^OtfE. 

Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 

Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 

And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 

This w r ay and that, in many a wild festoon 

Ban riot, garlanding the gnarled bonghs 

With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 

" mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
[Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river- sunder 'd champaign clothed with corn, 
Or labour' d mines undrainable of ore. 
Honour,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, 
Prom many an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-throng' d beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
6 Which in all action is the end of all ; 



(E>-01S T E. 103 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 

And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns 

Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me. 

From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but vet king-born, 

Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 

Only, are likest gods, who have attain' d 

Eest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power- 
Flatter' d his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

" i Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 



104 (E^O^E. 

And, because right is right, to follow right 
"Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Tet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
TTnbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew' d with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

" mother Ida, many-fountain' d Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 



CEXOXE. 105 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden ronnd her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

u Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half- whisper' d in his ear, ' I promise thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh' d : I shut my sight for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

u Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 



106 (EtfONE. 

Crouch' d fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Eoster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone GEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

" mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 



(ENONE, 107 

And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses ? water' d it with tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou, weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 



108 (ENOKE. 

Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
ITnblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
"With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Eings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



109 



THE SISTEES. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl w r as fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning name : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
"Whole weeks and months, and early and late, 
To win his love I lay in wait : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bad him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

the Earl was fair to see ! 



110 THE SISTEES. 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

the Earl was fair to see ! 



Ill 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM, 



I sexb you Here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess' d of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters 

That doat upon each other, friends to man, 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sunder' d without tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 

Howling in outer darkness. JNTot for this 

"Was common clay ta'en from the common earth. 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



112 



THE PALACE OF AET. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish' d brass, 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And "while the world runs round and round," I said, 

" Eeign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 



THE PALACE OE ART. 113 



To which my soul made answer readily : 

" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 



Eour courts I made, East, "West and South and North, 

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branch' d like mighty woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

Erom those four jets four currents in one swell 

Across the mountain stream' d below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 



114 THE PALACE OE ART. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd 
Prom out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, " And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes, 
"While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, 

And, while day sank or mounted higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail' d, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain' d and traced, 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow' d grots of arches interlaced, 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, 
"Well-pleased, from room to room. 



THE PALACE OE ART. 115 

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue, 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, 

And some one pacing there alone, 
"Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 
Tou seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow- streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

i2 



116 THE PALACE OF AET. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, 
Not less than truth design' d. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny- warm, 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear- wall' d city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 117 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply- wounded son 

In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch' d by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail' d, 

And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp' d, 
From off her shoulder backward borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand grasp 'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar' d town. 



118 THE PALACE OF ART. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design' d. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, 

Moved of themselves, with silver sound; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world- worn Dante grasp' d his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, 
Prom cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately- set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 119 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick' d with goads and stings ; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure, 
And here once more like some sick man declined, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow' d Yerulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Pull- welling fountain-heads of change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 



120 THE PALACE OF AET. 

, Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew 
Bivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro 3 the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 

Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: " All these are mine, 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
'Tis one to me." She — when young night divine 
Crown' d dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollow' d moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, 

" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 



THE PALACE OP AET. 121 

" O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me well ! 

silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

" God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 

"What time I watch the darkening droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

"In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate, 

And of the rising from the dead, 
As hers by right of full-accomplish' d Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 

1 sit as God holding no form of creed, 

But contemplating all." 



122 THE PALACE OF AET. 

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash' d thro' her as she sat alone, 
Tet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years 

She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 
"Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Pell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself ; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this my place of strength," she said, 

" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory ? " 



THE PALACE OE AET. 123 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, 
That stood against the walL 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 
" No voice," she shriek' d in that lone halT, 
" No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : 
One deep, deep silence all! " 



124 THE PALACE OF AET. 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Eemaining utterly confused with fears, 
And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I have found 
A new land, but I die." 



THE PALACE OF ART. 125 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
"What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? " 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

" Tet pull not down my palace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



126 



LADY CLAEA YEEE DE YEEE. 



Lady Clara Yere de Yere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 



Lady Clara Yere de Yere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 



LADY CLAEA YEEE DE YEEE. 127 

Lady Clara Yere de Yere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 



Lady Clara Yere de Yere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

"Which you had hardly cared to see. 



Lady Clara Yere de Yere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Yere de Yere. 



128 LADY CLARA VEBE DE YEEE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

Tou changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
Tou held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 



Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

Prom yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 



I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 

Tou pine among your halls and towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as these. 



LADY CLABA YEEE DE YERE. 129 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

ISTor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



130 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

— ♦ — 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
dear; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New- 
year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest 
day; 

Eor I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so 

bright as mine ; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never 

wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 



THE MAY QUEE]S T . 131 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and 

garlands gay, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 

yesterday, — 
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they 

say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that 

to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

Little Eflie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the 

Queen ; k 2 



132 THE MAT QUEEtf. 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far 

away, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy 

bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps 

and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 
meadow-grass, 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as 
they pass ; 

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live- 
long day, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance 

and play, 
Tor I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 



THE MAT QTJEEX. 133 

? So you must wake and call me early, call me early, 

mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 

New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest 

day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 

Queen o' the May. 



134 



NEW-YEAB'S EYE. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother 

dear, 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no 

more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace 

of mind ; 
And the New-years coming up, mother, but I shall 

never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a 

merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel 

copse, 
Till Charles's "Wain came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 



NEW-YEAK, S EYE. 135 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on 

the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on 

high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er 

the wave, 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 

grave. 

Upon the chancel- casement, and upon that grave of 

mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world 

is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 

waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow 

cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush 

in the pool. 



136 NEW-l EAR'S EYE. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 

shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am 

lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when 

you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant 

grass. 



I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me 

now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere 

I go; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 

wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another 

child. 



If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting- 
place ; 

Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon 
your face ; 

Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you 
say, 

And be often, often with you when you think I'm far 
away. 



FEW-TEAE S EYE. 137 

Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for 

evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the 

door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be 

growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 



She'll find my garden-tools npon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden 

more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush 

that I set 
About the parlour- window and the box of mignonette. 



Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is 

born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad Xew-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



138 



CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the 

lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's 

here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 

cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 

that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed 

sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be 

done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words 

of peace. 



COKCLUSIOIS'. 139 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on Iris silver hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me 
there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
!Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will 

let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 

watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and 

morning meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in 

mine, 
And Erne on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was 

over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
Andin the wild March-morning I heard them callmy soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 



140 CONCLUSION. 



With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt 

resign' d, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 



I thought that it was fancy, and I listen' d in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not 

what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my 

mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping : and I said, "It's not for them : 
it's mine." 

And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for 
a sign. 

And once again it came, and close beside the window- 
bars, 

Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among 
the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort Tier when I am past away. 

And say to Eobin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy 
yet. 



CONCLUSION. 141 

If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his 

wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire 

of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a 

glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I 

know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light 

may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day 

is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the 

sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we 

such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie 

come — 
To lie within the light of Grod, as I lie upon your 

breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest. 



142 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land, 
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flush' d: and, dew'd with showery dropfe 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 



THE LOTOS-EATEES. 143 

The charmed sunset linger' d low adown 

In the red "West : thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border' d with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 

A land where all things always seem'd the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy name, 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Eather-land, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 



144 THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



CHOEIC SONG. 

1. 
There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night- dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful 

skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 

2. 
Why are we weigh' d upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness ? 
All things have rest : why should we toil alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan, 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings, 



THE LOTOS-EATEES. 145 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 

Nor barken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ? 



3. 
Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
"With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 
Sun-steep' d at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Palls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten' d with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



4. 
Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labour be ? 



146 THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. "What is it that will last ? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 

5. 
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 
With half- shut eyes ever to seem 
Palling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; 
To hear each other's whisper' d speech; 
Eating the Lotos day by day, 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! 



THE LOTOS-EATEBS. 147 

6. 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 

And dear the last embraces of our wives 

And their warm tears : but all hath suffer' d change ; 

For surely now our household hearths are cold : 

Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes over-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 

Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle ? 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile : 

'Tis hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 

Long labour unto aged breath, 

Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot- stars. 

7. 
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 

l2 



148 THE LOTOS-EATEES. 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 

To watch the emerald-colour' d water falling 

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretch' d out beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos- 
dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Eoll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge 

was seething free, 
"Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam- 
fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are 

hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 

lightly curl'd 
Eound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming 
world : 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 149 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring 

deeps and fiery sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, 

and praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful 

song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of 

wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the 

soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper' d — 

down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the 

shore 
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and w T ave 

and oar ; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 



150 



A DBEAM OF FAIE WOMEN. 



I bead, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
" The Legend of Good Women" long ago 

Sung by the morning star of song, who made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
"With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 

Held me above the subject, as strong gales 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 



A DEEAM Or EAIB WOMEN. 151 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter' d with clanging hoofs : 
And I saw crowds in column' d sanctuaries ; 

And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire ; 

"White surf wind-scatter' d over sails and masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, 

Eanges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 



152 A DREAM OF FAIR WOME^. 

I started once, or seein'd to start in pain, 

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, 

As when a great thought strikes along the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once mj arm was lifted to hew down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer' d town ; 

And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought 

Stream' d onward, lost their edges, and did creep 

Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth' d, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 

In an old wood : fresh-wash' d in coolest dew, 

The maiden splendours of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey done, 

And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, 

Half-falTn across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 



A DREA^I OF FAIR WOMEIf. 153 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 

And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 

Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from w T ithin me a clear under-tone 

Thrill' d thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime 

" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there ; 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair. 



154 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEK. 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 

Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. "Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died," 

I answer' d free ; and turning I appeal' d 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, 

To her full height her stately stature draws ; 

" My youth," she said, " was blasted with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 

Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears : 

My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 

The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 



A DEE AM OP FAIB WOMEN. 155 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; 

The crowds, the temples, waver' d, and the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat ; 

Touch' d ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 

" I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, 

Whirl' d by the wind, had rolTd me deep below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 

Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 

One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : 

" I govern' d men by change, and so I sway'd 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humour ebb and flow, 

I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 



156 A DBEAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye 

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend, 
Where is Mark Antony ? 

" The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : 

The Mlus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O my life 

In Egypt ! the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 

" And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, 

Contented there to die ! 

" And there he died : and when I heard my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear 

Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his fame. 
What else was left ? look here ! " 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish' d argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, 
Showing the aspick's bite.) 



A DEE AM 0E EAIE, WOMEN. 157 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name for ever ! — lying robed and crown 5 d, 
Worthy a Roman spouse. 3 ' 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 

From tone to tone, and glided thro 5 all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for delight ; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light 

The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 

A noise of some one coming thro* the lawn, 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow' d Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro 5 the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 



158 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Moods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine : 
All night the splinter' d crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm' d and tied 

To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow 

Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 

Erom Mizpeh's tower' d gate with welcome light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : 

" Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, 

Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 



A DBEAM 0E EAIB, WOMEN. 159 

" My God, my land, my father — these did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 

Lower' d softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

" And I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
"We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darken' d glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 



160 A DEEAM OP FAIR WOME1S". 

" It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Grlow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning- star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 

As one that from a casement leans his head, 
"When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, 

And the old year is dead. 

" Alas ! alas I " a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur' d beside me: " Turn and look on me : 

I am that Eosamond, whom men call fair, 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! 

O me, that I should ever see the light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger d Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night." 



A DEEAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 161 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : 

To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely died ! 

Tou should have clung to Eulvia's waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro 5 her side." 

With that sharp soundthe white dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Euled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden' d on the borders of the dark, 

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 

Her murder' d father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient Erance ; 

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labours longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain 
Compass' d, how eagerly I sought to strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 



162 A DEEAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past years, 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho 5 cull'd with choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



163 



MAEGAEET. 

1. 

sweet pale Margaret, 

rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 

Tour melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the west ward- winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 

Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 

M 2 



164 MARGARET. 

2. 

You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
Moat by you on the verge of night. 

3. 
What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 



A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 

Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 
Keeps real sorrow far away. 



MAEGAEET. 165 

You move not in such solitudes, 

Tou are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Tour hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch' d with a somewhat darker hue, 

And less aerially blue, 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty- woeful sympathies. 

5. 
O sweet pale Margaret, 
rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leavy beech. 
Bise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 

TVhere all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
L^pon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



166 



THE BLA.CKBIKD. 

O Blackbied ! sing me something well : 
While all the neighbours shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young : 



THE BLACKBIED. 167 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 

JNow thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



168 



DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR 



Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a- dying. 
Old year, you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
And the New-year will take 'em away. 
Old year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old year, you shall not go. 



THE DEATH OE THE OLD TEAE. 169 

He froth' d his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I've half a mind to die with you, 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows nicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : 

"What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 



170 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAE. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 



171 



To J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
More softly round the open wold, 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, 

Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

G-od gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 



172 TO J. S. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn' d ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; 

One went, who never hath return' d. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honour and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." 



TO J. S. 173 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind ;" 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you anyway, 

VTho miss the brother of your youth ? 
Tet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best 



174 TO J. S. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 

Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease ; 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons increase, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



175 



Yotr ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
"Within this region I subsist, 
"Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas ? 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 

The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 

But by degrees to fullness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 



176 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should almost choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



177 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 

The thunders breaking at her feet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather' d in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men reveal' d 
The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

Prom her isle-altar gazing down, 

"Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 



178 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 

Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



179 



Loye thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
"Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro 5 future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
Por English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophist er can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
Prom those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 



180 

Make knowledge circle with tlie winds ; 

But let her herald, Beverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Eegard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after- days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master' d by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, binds- 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 



181 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its offi.ce, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

"Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Teaming to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — • 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 



182 

Of many changes, aptly join' d, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Kegard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Paction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 



183 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Eaw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



184 



THE GOOSE. 

I knew an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He utter' d rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, 

It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbours ; 

And bless' d herself, and cursed herself, 
And rested from her labours. 



THE GOOSE. 185 

And feeding high, and living soft, 

Grew plump and able-bodied ; 
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, 

The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 

She felt her heart grow prouder : 
But ah ! the more the white goose laid 

It clack' d and cackled louder. 

It clutter' d here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 

Then wax'd her anger stronger. 
" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 

I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat ; 

E-an Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamour. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder' d all together, 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather : 



186 THE GOOSE. 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter' d words of scorning ; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and plain, 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again, 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear' d the larder ; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger ! " 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. 



(published 1842.) 



189 



THE EPIC. 



At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, 
Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk, 
How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 
In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out 
With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several stars, 
Eell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 
Xow harping on the church-commissioners, 
jNow hawking at Geology and schism ; 
Until I woke, and found him settled down 
Upon the general decay of faith 



190 THE EPIC. 

Eight thro' the world, " at home was little left, 

And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, 

To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 

On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." 

"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl.'* 

" "Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way 

At college : but another which you had, 

I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 

What came of that?" "You know," said Erank," he burnt 

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books " — 

And then to me demanding why ? " Oh, sir, 

He thought that nothing new was said, or else 

Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth 

Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : 

God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 

It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, 

" Why take the style of those heroic times ? 

Eor nature brings not back the Mastodon, 

Nor we those times ; and why should any man 

Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, 

Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " But I," 

Said Erancis, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, 

And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 

He laugh' d, and I, though sleepy, like a horse 

That hears the corn-bin open, prick' d my ears ; 

Eor I remember' d Everard's college fame 



MOETE D AETHTTE. 191 

When we were Freshmen : then at my request 
He brought it ; and the poet little urged, 
But with some prelude of disparagement, 
Eead, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MOETE D'AETHUE. 



So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 

Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross, 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 



192 M0ETE D AETHTJE. 

Shall never more, at any future time, 

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 

"Walking about the gardens and the halls 

Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 

I perish by this people which I made, — 

Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 

To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 

I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 

That without help I cannot last till morn. 

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 

Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 

And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime, this also shall be known : 

But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word. ! 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 



MOETE DAETHUE, 193 

And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
Eor all the haft twinkled with diamond studs, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal' d 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded king. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou perform' d my mission which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, 



194 MOETE D AETHTJE. 

Not rendering true answer, as beseem' d 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign bad follow' d, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Tet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
Eut when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 
"Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
"What good should follow this, if this were done ? 
"What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
"Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
"What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 



MOETE D ARTHUR. 195 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 

Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 

"Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honour and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" "What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 

o2 



196 MORTE D ARTHUR. 

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch' d the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirl' d in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
" JSTow see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 



MOETE D AETEXE. 197 

But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish' d him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Eemorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
"When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear " Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 



198 MOETE D ARTHUR. 

Dry clash' d his harness in the icy caves 

And barren chasms, and all to left and right 

The bare black cliff clang' d round him, as he based 

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 

Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 

And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 

And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Eeneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver' d to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur' d Arthur, " Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon 



MOETE D ARTHUR. 199 

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 

Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 

That made his forehead like a rising sun 

High from the dais-throne — were parch' d with dust ; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 

So like a shatter' d column lay the King ; 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 

From spur to plume a star of tournament, 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer' d Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 



200 MORTE D ARTHUR. 

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 

I have lived my life, and that which I have done 

May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 

If thou shouldst never see my face again, 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 

Than this world dreams of. "Wherefore, let thy voice 

Bise like a fountain for me night and day. 

For what are men better than sheep or goats 

That nourish a blind life within the brain, • 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 

Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 

Bor so the whole round earth is every way 

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 

But now farewell. I am going a long way 

With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 

(Tor all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 

To the island- valley of Avilion ; 

"Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 

Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 

Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Kuffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 



MOETE DAETHUR. 201 

Bevolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem' d it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; 
I know not : but we sitting, as I said, 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
" There now — that's nothing ! " drew a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder' d log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores, 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 



202 MOETE D AETHTTE. 

Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, 
"Arthur is come again : he cannot die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — " Come again, and thrice as fair ; " 
And, further inland, voices echoed — " Come 
"With all good things, and war shall be no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. 



203 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER ; 



THE PICTUEES. 

This morning is the morning of the day, 
"When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portion' d in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moons, 



204 THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER ; 

The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
" "When will you paint like this ? " and I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
" 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of March." 
And Juliet answer' d laughing, " Go and see 
The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that, 
Tou scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
"Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 



OB, THE PICTTJBES. 205 

Crown' d with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder' d kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers low, 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. "Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? Where was he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in grief, 
That, haying seen, forgot ? The common mouth, 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
"Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter 'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream 



206 THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER; 

Dream' d by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 

And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of Heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. And now, 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he w r ere the bird of day. 

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing 



OK, THE PICTXTEES. 207 

Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 

Or have they any sense of why they sing ? 

And would they praise the heavens for what they have ? " 

And I made answer, " Were there nothing else 

For which to praise the heavens but only love, 

That only love were cause enough for praise." 

Lightly he laugh' d, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter' d in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 

" Eustace," I said, " This wonder keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 



208 THE GAKDENER's DATTGHTEB ; 

A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down, 
But, ere it touch' d a foot, that might have danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt, 
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground ! 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Eose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd 
Into the world without ; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent, 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
"Which brooded round about her : 

" Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, 
"Were worth a hundred kisses press' d on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

Shelook'd: but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, 



OB, THE PICTURES. 209 

Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 

And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 

And moved away, and left me, statue-like, 

In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger' d there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 

So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
" Now," said he, " will you climb the top of Art. 
Tou cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm' d in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 



210 THE GARDENER S DAUGHTER; 

The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odours on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a Dutch love 
Eor tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk, 
To grace my city-rooms ; or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more and more 
A word could bring the colour to my cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade ; 
And each in passing touch' d with some new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour 
Eor Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
Erom thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose up 
Eull of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 



OR, THE PICTURES. 211 

Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach' d 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 

There sat we down upon a garden mound, 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal' d their shining windows : from them clash' d 
The bells ; we listen' d ; with the time we play'd ; 
"We spoke of other things ; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, 
Eequiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Eequiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; 
And in that time and place she answer' d me, 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one, 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering "I am thine." 

Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes, 
By its own energy fulfill' d itself, 
Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full 

p2 



212 THE GAKDENER S DAUGHTER ; 

How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 

Beyond all grades develop d ? and indeed 

I had not staid so long to tell you all, 

But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, 

Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 

And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my lips, 

And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven 

Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar 

The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 

Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. 

Tet might I tell of meetings, of farewells— 
Of that which came between, more sweet than each, 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
"Which perfect Joy, perplex' d for utterance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars ; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores, 
And in the hollows ; or as once we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, 



OE, THE PICTTTBES. 213 

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Eehold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 



214 



DOKA. 

— ♦ — 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son, 

And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 

And often thought " I'll make them man and wife." 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 

And yearn' d towards William ; but the youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house, 

Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 



DOBA. 215 

In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But "William answer' d short ; 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" Tou will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer' d madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
Bat Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And^ora promised, being meek. She thought, 



216 DOEA. 

" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
"Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On "William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on "William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Ear off the farmer came into the field 



DORA. 217* 

And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said ; " "Where were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ! What are you doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's child ! " 
" And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again ; 
" Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! " 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
Tou knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 



218 DORA. 

At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To Grod, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
Eut, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer' d Mary, " This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach' d the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 



DORA. 219 

The boy set up betwixt hi3 grandsire's knees, 
"Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretch' d out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
Prom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

" Father ! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 

1 God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 



220 DORA. 

" I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd 
my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundredfold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, 
Thinking of "William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



221 



AUDLEY COUBT. 

" The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 
And breathing of the sea. " "With all my heart," 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder' d thro' the swarm, 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

"We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach' d 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all 
The pillar' d dusk of sounding sycamores, 
And cross' d the garden to the gardener's lodge, 



222 AUDLET COURT. 

"With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, 
"Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats, 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat 
And talk'd old matters over ; who was dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the hall : 
Then touch' d upon the game, how scarce it was 
This season; glancing thence, discuss' d the farm, 
The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh' d aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang — 

" Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live my life. 

" Oh ! who would cast and balance at a desk, 
Perch' d like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, 



ATJDLET COURT. 223 

Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. 

" Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 
I might as well have traced it in the sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. 

" Oh ! who would love ? I woo'd a woman once, 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea : but let me live my life." 

He sang his song, and I replied with mine : 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock' d down to me, when old Sir Eobert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 

" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
Eor thou art fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn, 

" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." 



224 ATJDLEY COURT. 

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's son who lived across the bay, 
My friend ; and I, that having wherewithal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life, 
Did what I would ; but ere the night we rose 
And saunter' d home beneath a moon, that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach' d 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, 
The town was hush'd beneath us : lower down 
The bay was oily-calm ; the harbour-buoy 
"With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



225 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



John. I'm glad I walk'd. How freslithe meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago, 
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. 
Is yon plantation where this byway joins 
The turnpike ? 

James. Tes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 
James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 

John. What is it now ? 
James. A quarter to. 

John. "Whose house is that I see ? 
No, not the County Member's with the vane : 
Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's : 
But he's abroad : the place is to be sold. 
John. Oh, his. He was not broken. 

James. No, sir, he, 
Q 



226 WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for change. 

John. And whither ? 

James. Nay, who knows ? he's here and there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 

John. What's that ? 
James. Tou saw the man — on Monday, was it r — 
There by the humpback' d willow ; half stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tickling trout — 
Caught v& flagrante — what's the Latin word? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say, 
"Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, 
And all his household stuff ; and with his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, " What ! 
You're flitting ! " " Yes, we're flitting," says the ghost, 
(Eor they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) 
" Oh well," says he, " you flitting with us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 227 

John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard. 

James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 

John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and then she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it flowers. 

James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. "What betwixt shame and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd 
To what she is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best : those manners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 

John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. 

James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince 
As from a venomous thing : he thought himself 
A mark for all, and shudder 5 d, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes 

Q2 



228 WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon' d chairs ; but, sir, you know 
That these two parties still divide the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. JSTow I myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
There lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fruit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for us ; 
"We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, 
"With meditative grunts of much content, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair 
With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother sow, 
And but for daily loss of one she loved, 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy : but what lot is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine," 
And so return' d unfarrow'd to her sty. 
John. They found you out ? 

James. Not they. 



WALKLtfO TO THE MAIL. 229 

John. Well — after all — 
What know we of the secret of a man ? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool the world, 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three pyebalds and a roan. 



230 



EDWIN MORRIS; 

OR, THE LAKE. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake. 

My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year. 

My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 

Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 

See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge. 

Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 

When men knew how to build, upon a rock, 

With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 

And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 

New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires, 

Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimnied bulk 

Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 

me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, 



EDWIN MORKia ; OE. TILL LAKE. 231 

^Vho forged a thousand theories of the rocks. 
AVho taught me how to skate, to row. to swim. 
"Who read me rhymes elaborately good. 
His own — I calTd him Criehton. for he seem'd 
All-perfect, finish' d to the finder nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life. 
And his first passion ; and he answer d me ; 

And well his words became him : was he not 

A full-cell' d honeycomb of eloquence 

Stored from all flowers r Poet-like he spoke. 

• My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that. 
And three rich sennights more, my love for her. 
My love for ^Nature and my love for her. 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew. 
Twin-sister.- differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun. 
And some full music seem'd to move and change 
With all the varied changes of the dark. 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
Tor daily hope fulnll'd. to rise again 
Eevolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit. to sleep, to breathe, to wake.' 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull. 



232 EDWIN MOEBIS ; 

c I take it, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us np, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the world.' 

1 Parson ' said I ' you pitch the pipe too low : 
Bat I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his ; 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a dream ? ' 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

< Give ? 
Give all thou art ' he answer' d, and a light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 
6 1 would have hid her needle in my heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear 
Her lightest breaths : her least remark was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and came; 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! 



OE, THE LAKE. 233 

The flower of each, those moments when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no more.' 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; 
Whether he spoke too largely ; that there seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-conceit, 
Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, 
He scarcely hit my humour, and I said : 

' Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full Grod-bless-you right and left ? 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place : 'tis from no want in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
Or something of a wayward modern mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.' 

So spoke I knowing not the things that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : 
c God made the woman for the use of man, 
And for the good and increase of the world.' 
And I and Edwin laugh' d ; and now we paused 



234 EDWIN MOREIS ; 

About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, 
My suit had wither' d, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no more : 
She sent a note, the seal an UMe vous suit, 
The close ' Tour Letty, only yours ; ' and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beating heart 
The Sweet- Gale rustle round the shelving keel ; 
And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved, 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed 
In some new planet : a silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed : ' Leave ' she cried 
' leave me ! ' ' Never, dearest, never : here 
I brave the worst : ' and while we stood like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they came 



OR, THE LAKE. 235 

Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. ' What, with him ! 

' Gro ' (shrill'd the cottonspinning chorus) ' him ! ' 

I choked. Again they shriek' d the burthen ' Him ! ' 

Again with hands of wild rejection c Go ! — 

Grirl, get you in ! ' She went — and in one month 

They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 

To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 

And slight Sir Bobert with his watery smile 

And educated whisker, But for me, 

They set an ancient creditor to work : 

It seems I broke a close with force and arms : 

There came a mystic token from the king 

To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 

I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : 

Her taper glimmer' d in the lake below : 

I turn'd once more, close-button' d to the storm ; 

So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 

Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. 

INor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long ago 
I have pardon' d little Letty ; not indeed, 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this, 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For in the dust and drouth of London life 
She moves among my visions of the lake, 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. 



236 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 
Eor troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdonij and to clamour, mourn and sob, 
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, 



ST. SIMEON STTL1TES. 237 

Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 

The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. 

take the meaning, Lord : I do not breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crushed 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, 
For I was strong and hale of body then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown' d the whoopings of the owl with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind, 
And scarce can recognise the fields I know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew ; 
Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 



238 ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 

Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And needfully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from the well, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray' d my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this 
I bore, whereof, God, thou knowest all. 

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain side. 
My right leg chain' d into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 239 

Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice 
Black' d with thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
"Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. 

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch' d on one that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew 
Twice ten long weary weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 

I think that I have borne as much as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
" Fall down, Simeon : thou hast suffer' d long 
"For ages and for ages ! " then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall, 



240 ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 

Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, 

to 

I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, 

Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, 

To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints ; 

Or in the night, after a little sleep, 

I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet 

"With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. 

I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ; 

A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 

And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, 

And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : 

O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 

Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : 
'Tis their own doing ; this is none of mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, 
That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! ha ! 
They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) 



ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 241 

Have all in all endured as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar 5 d for saints. 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ? 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some miracles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but what of that ? 
Yet do not rise : for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? 
I think you know I have some power with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak his wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! they shout 
" St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now 

R 



242 ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 

Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
Prom my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck' d my sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross ; they swarm' d again. 
In .bed like monstrous apes they crush' d my chest: 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book : 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Tour flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : 



ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 243 

God only thro 5 his bounty hath thought fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
"When you may worship me without reproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, 
When I am gather' d to the glorious saints. 

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain 
Ean shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! 
'Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. 

r2 



244 ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. 



245 



THE TALKING OAK. 

0>~ce more the gate behind me falls ; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder' d Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return' d ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal' d 

Than Papist unto Saint. 



246 THE TALKING OAK. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice, 

Until he plagiarised a heart, 
And answer' d with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper' d, under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O "Walter, I have shelter' d here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year, 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 



THE TALKISTQ OAK. 247 

" Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 

And, issuing shorn and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 

The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter' s-pence, 

And number' d bead, and shrift, 
Bluff Harry broke into the spence, 

And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 

Eresh faces, that would thrive 
When his man-minded offset rose 

To chase the deer at five ; 

" And all that from the town would stroll, 

Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow' d many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 

Or while the patch was worn ; 



248 THE TALKING OAK. 

" And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 
About me leap'd and laugh' d 

The modish Cupid of the day, 
And shrill' d his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all ; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Tour own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Tet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So light upon the grass : 



THE TALKING OAK. 249 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 

To make the greensward fresh, 
I hold them exquisitely knit, 

But far too spare of flesh." 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 

That oft hast heard my vows, 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy. 

" An hour had past — and, sitting straight 

"Within the low- wheel' d chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Behind the dappled grays. 



250 THE TALKING OAK. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home, 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to come, 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing, 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darling child : 

"But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch' d on, dipt and rose, 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round me play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole ; ' 



THE TALKING OAK. 251 

" And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist : 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold.'' 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

" yes, she wander'd round and round 

These knotted knees of mine, 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 

And sweetly murmur' d thine. 



252 THE TALKING OAK. 

" A teardrop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 

" Then flush' d her cheek with rosy light, 
She glanced across the plain ; 

But not a creature was in sight : 
She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 
That, trust me on my word, 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern' d, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 



THE TALKING OAK. 253 

" For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather' d into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 

O nourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O nourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

" 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm, 

And at my feet she lay. 



254 THE TALKING OAK. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter' d round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
!Prom head to ancle fine. 

" Then close and dark my arms I spread, 
And shadow'd all her rest — 

Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck' d it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 



THE TALKING OAK. 255 

" And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
Eor never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 

Look further thro' the chace, 
Spread upward till thy boughs discern 

The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 

The warmth it thence shall win 
To riper life may magnetise 

The baby-oak within. 



256 THE TALKING OAK. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow— 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 



THE TALKING OAK. 257 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall, 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 

In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 

And praise thee more in both 
Than bard has honour' d beech or lime, 

Or that Thessalian growth, 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 

And mystic sentence spoke ; 
And more than England honours that, 

Thy famous brother-oak, 

"Wherein the younger Charles abode 

Till all the paths were dim, 
And far below the Eoundhead rode, 

And humm'd a surly hymn. 



258 



LOYE AND DUTY. 

Or love that never found his earthly close, 

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? 

Or all the same as if he had not been ? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout 
Eor some blind glimpse of freedom work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself ? 

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 



LOYE AND DTJTT. 259 

But am I not the nobler thro 5 thy love ? 
three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more thro 5 Love, and greater than thy years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. "Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 

"Will some one say, then why not ill for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Grodlike being most a man. 

— So let me think 'tis well for thee and me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me, 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief! ) 
Eain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh' d 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! 

For Love himself took part against himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — ■ 

s2 



260 LOYE AKD DUTY. 

this world's curse, — beloved but hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, 
And crying, " "Who is this ? behold thy bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
. No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. 

Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak. 
To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, 
And all good things from evil, brought the night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want, that hollow' d all the heart, 
Grave utterance by the yearning of an eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung 



LOYE AKD DUTY. 261 

Love-charm' d to listen : all the wheels of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 

then like those, who clench their nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and utter' d it, 
And bade adieu for ever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content, 
"With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant light, 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh' d, 
Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown 
Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow of pearl 
Ear furrowing into light the mounded rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 



262 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 
— ♦ — 

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote ; 

It was last summer on a tour in "Wales : 

Old James was with me : we that day had been 

Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard there, 

And found him in Llanberis : then we crost 

Between the lakes, and clamber' d halfway up 

The counter side ; and that same song of his 

He told me ; for I banter' d him, and swore 

They said he lived shut up within himself, 

A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, 

That, setting the how much before the how, 

Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, " give, 

Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! 

To which " They call ine what they will," he said : 
But I was born too late : the fair new forms, 
That float about the threshold of an age, 
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown' d — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of yestermorn. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 263 

" We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel' d in her ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

" Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can bud, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower, 
Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year. 

" When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, 
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 

" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Boll onward, leading up the golden year. 

" My happy happy sails and bear the Press ; 
Ely happy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 



264 THE GOLDEN TEAR. 

And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? " 

Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; whereupon 
"Ah, folly! " in mimic cadence answer d James — 
" Ah, folly ! for it lies so far aw r ay, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'Tis like the second world to us that live ; 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 

With that he struck his staff against the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

"What stuff is this! 
Old writers push'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip 
His hand into the bag : but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the doors." 

He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap 
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. 



265 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match' d with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer' d greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour' d of them all ; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 



266 ULYSSES. 

Gleams that untravelTd world, whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with 
me — 



ULYSSES. 267 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Eree hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; 

Death closes all : but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 

The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Comkades, leave rae here a little, while as yet 'tis 

early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon 

the bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews 

call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley 

Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy 

tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went 

to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the "West. 



LOCKSLET HALL. 269 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro 5 the mellow 

shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver 

braid. 

Here about the beach I wander' d, nourishing a youth 

sublime 
"With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of 

Time; 

"When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land 

reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that 

it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could 

see; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 

would be. ■ 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's 

breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another 

crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish' d 

dove; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 

thoughts of love. 



270 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be 

for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance 

hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the 

truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to 

thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a 

light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern 

night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden 

storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 

eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should 

do me wrong ; " 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I 

have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his 

glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 

sands. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 271 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 

chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in 

music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 

copses ring, 
And her whisper throng' d my pulses with the fullness 

of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the 

stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the 

lips. 

my cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, mine no 

more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! the barren, barren 

shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 

have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish 

tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to 

decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than 

mine ! 



272 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Tet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by 

day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise 

with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a 

clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to 

drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent 

its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his 

horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are 

glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand 

in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over- 
wrought : 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy 
lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- 
stand — 

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with 
my hand ! 



LOCKSLET HALL. 273 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's 

disgrace, 
Eoll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last 

embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength 

of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living 

truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 

Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten' d forehead 

of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou 

less unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever 

wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but 

bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the 

root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years 

should come 
As the many- winter' d crow that leads the clanging 

rookery home. 

T 



274 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the 

mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew 

her, kind ? 

I remember one that perish' d : sweetly did she speak 

and move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love 
she bore ? 

No — she never loved me truly : love is love for ever- 
more. 

Comfort ? comfort scorn' d of devils ! this is truth the 

poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart 

be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on 

the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring 

at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the. shadows 

rise and fall. 



LOCKSLET HALL. 275 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his 

drunken sleep, 
To thy widow' d marriage-pillows, to the tears that 

thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the 

phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of 

thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness 

on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy 

rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender 

voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble 

dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings 

thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 

mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not 

his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the 

two. 

t2 



276 LOCKSLET HALL. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty 

part, 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a 

daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the feelings — she 
herself was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffer' d " — Perish in thy self- 
contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should 

I care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 

despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon 

days like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to 

golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets 

overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I 

should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's 

ground, 
When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds 

are laid with sound. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 277 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that 

Honour feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 

other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier 

page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, thou wondrous 

Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the 

strife, 
"When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of 

my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 

years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's 

field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer 

drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary 

dawn; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him 

then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs 

of men ; 



278 LOCKSLET HALL. 



Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 

something new : 
That which they have done bnt earnest of the things 

that they shall do : 



lor I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 

see, 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that 

would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic 

sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly 

bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd 

a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central 

blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- wind 

rushing warm, 
"With the standards of the peoples plunging thro 5 the 

thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle- 
flags were furl'd 

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the 
world. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 279 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful 

realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal 

law. 



So I triumph 5 d, ere my passion sweeping thro' me left 

me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the 

jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out 

of joint, 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from 

point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping 
nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- 
dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose 

runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widen' d with the process 

of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a 
boy's ? 



280 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on 

the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and 

more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a 

laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of 

his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the 

bugle-horn; 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for 

their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder' d 

string ? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so 

slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 

shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

match 'd with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 

wine — 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 281 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for 

some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began 

to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil- 

starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 

ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 

away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the 

day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots 

of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European 

flag, 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 

trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom' d bower, hangs the heavy- 
fruited tree — 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of 
sea. 



282 LOCKS LET HALL. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this 

march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that 

shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp' d no longer shall have scope 

and breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple- sinew' d, they shall dive, and they 

shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances 

in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows 

of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 

books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I knoiv my 

words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

J, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious 

gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with 

lower pains ! 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 283 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun 

or clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by 

one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward 

let us range. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing 

grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the 

younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 

Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when 

life begun : 
Eift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, 

weigh the Sun — 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not 

set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy 

yet. 



284 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley 

Hall! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 

roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 

thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire 

or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 

I go. 



285 



GODIYA. 



I waited for the train at Coventry ; 

I hung ivith grooms and porters on the bridge, 

lb watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped 

The city's ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, 
And loathed to see them overtax' d; but she 
Did more, and underwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
G-odiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamouring, " If we pay, we starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 



286 GODIYA. 

And pray'd him, "If they pay this tax, they starve." 

Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 

" You would not let your little finger ache 

For such as these ? " — " But I would die," said she. 

He laugh' d, and swore by Peter and by Paul : 

Then fillip' d at the diamond in her ear ; 

" O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — " Alas ! " she said, 

" But prove me what it is I would not do." 

And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 

He answer' d, " Ride you naked thro' the town, 

And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in scorn, 

He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind, 
As winds from all the compass shift and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bad him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her well, 
From then till noon no foot should pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing ; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr d. 

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
She linger' d, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee ; 



GODIYA. 287 

Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
Prom pillar unto pillar, until she reach' d 
The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon' d with armorial gold. 

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : 
The deep air listen' d round her as she rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
The little wide-mouth' d heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek name : her palfrey's footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls 
"Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. 

Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will, 
"Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once, 
AVith twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon 
Was clash' d and hammer' d from a hundred towers, 



288 GODIYA. 

One after one : but even then she gain'd 

Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown' d, 

To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 

And built herself an everlasting name. 



289 



THE TWO VOICES, 

A still small voice spake unto me. 
u Thou art so full of misery, 
TVere it not better not to be? " 

Then to the still small voice I said ; 
;; Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made.'' 

To which the voice did urge reply ; 

" To-dav I saw the drason-flv 

Come from the wells where he did he. 

,: An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

u He dried his wings : like gauze they t v-~ 
Thro 5 crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew/"' 



290 THE TWO YOICES. 

I said, " "When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied ; 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride : 

Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres ? " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Tet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 



THE TWO YOICES. 291 

To which he answer' d scoffingly; 

" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 

"Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? " 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Eain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steep' d in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 

Nor any train of reason keep : 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." 

I said, " The years with change advance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Ev'n yet." But he : " "What drug can make 
A wither' d palsy cease to shake ? " 

u2 



292 THE TWO YOICES. 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

"And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Tet, " said the secret voice, " some time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Wot less swift souls that yearn for light, 

Eapt after heaven's starry flight, 

Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

" Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? " 



THE TWO YOICES. 293 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 

" Or make that morn, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Mood with full daylight glebe and town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'Twere better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resign' d, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 



294 THE TWO YOICES. 

I said, " "When I am gone away, 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonour to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 

Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither' d leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner' d Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 



THE TWO YOICES. 295 

" Nay — rather jet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn' d for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash' d and rung. 

" I sung the joyful Psean clear, 
And, sittiug, burnish' d without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehold to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove, 
And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

" To search thro' all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law : 



296 THE TWO YOICES. 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light withdraws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honour' d, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, 
"When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke." 

" Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream was good, 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 



THE TWO YOICES. 297 

" Then comes the check, the change, the fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labour little-worth. 

" That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho 5 scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
JSamed man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 



THE TWO YOICES. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, say est thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 

Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

a And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
"Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 



THE TWO TOICES. 299 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 

Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 

Tho' cursed and scorn' d, and bruised with stones: 

" But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 



300 THE TWO YOICES. 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, 

The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : 

For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
"What is it that I may not fear ? " 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died ; 

Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

" Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 



THE TWO VOICES. 301 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express' d 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonour to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honour, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north- wind rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapours fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 

" These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 



302 THE TWO YOICES. 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head : 
' Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 

" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

By which he doubts against the sense ? 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 



THE TWO YOICES. 303 

" Here sits lie shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro 5 thick veils to apprehend 
A labour working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 

His reason : many things perplex, 

With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good, 

He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

" Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 



304 THE TWO YOICES. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against, 

Palls back, the voice with which I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when thy father play'cl 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they called him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days*that never come again. 

" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man : 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather' d on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 



THE TWO TOICES. 305 

" A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the rest, 
INo certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

" Eut if I grant, thou might' st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Tet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

" As old mythologies relate, 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 



306 THE TWO YOICES. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 

" But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearning toward the lamps of night. 

" Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

" And men, whose reason long was blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 



THE TWO YOICES, 307 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

" Tor memory dealing but with time, 
And be with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," said he, 
" JSTot with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, "hast miss ? d thy mark, 
Who sought' st to wreck my mortal ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

x2 



308 THE TWO YOICES. 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, 
Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften d airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter' d like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife aud child, 
With measur'd footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 



THE TWO YOICES. 309 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander' d on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighbourhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 



310 THE TWO VOICES. 

Like an iEolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 

" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ?" I cried. 

" A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, altko' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder' d at the bounteous hours, 

The slow result of winter showers : 

You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonder' d, while I paced along : 

The woods were fill'd so full with song, 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. 



THE TWO VOICES. 311 

So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Eejoice ! rejoice ! " 



312 



THE DAY-DEEAM. 



PEOLOGUE. 

O, Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on jour damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream' d, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had, 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 



THE DAY-DBEAM. 313 



And I will tell it. Turn your face, 
Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 

The rhymes are dazzled from their place, 
And order 5 d words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

1. 
The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Paint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, 

Paint murmurs from the meadows come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 



314 THE DAY-DBEAM. 

3. 

Boof-haunting martins warm their eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the wall. 

L 
Here sits the Butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain' d; and there 
The w T rinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of-honour blooming fair : 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever' d as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 

5. 
Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather' d in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



THE DAY-DKEAM. 315 



All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

7. 
When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order' d, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

1. 
Tear after year unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 



316 THE DAY-DKEAM. 

On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : 

The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 
And moves not on the rounded carl. 

2. 
The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
Her constant beaut y doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 



She sleeps : her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE DAY-DEEAM. 317 



THE AKRIVAL. 
I. 

All precious things, discover' d late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
Eor love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

2. 
The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither' d in the thorny close, 

Or scatter' d blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish' d in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds." 

3. 
He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : 

He breaks the hedge : he enters there : 
The colour flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fair ; 



318 THE DAY-DREAM. 

For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 

With words of promise in his walk, 
And whisper'd voices at his ear. 

4. 
More close and close his footsteps wind ; 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden e yes must be ! " 



THE KEVIVAL. 

1. 
A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



THE DAT-DREAM. 319 

2. 

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 

The bntler drank, the steward scrawl' d, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall' d, 
The maid and page renew' d their strife, 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 

3. 
And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 

4. 
" Pardy," return' d the king, " but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention' d half an hour ago ? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return' d reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



320 THE DAT-DEEAM. 



THE DEPAETUEE. 
1. 
And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow' d him. 

2. 
"I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; " 
" w^ake for ever, love," she hears, 

" love, 'twas such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 

3. 
" eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

" love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " 



THE DAY-DBEAM. 321 



And o'er them many a flowing range 
Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark, 

And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 
The twilight died into the dark. 



" A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where ? " 
" seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Eeyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Thro' all the world she follow' d him. 



MOEAL. 

1. 
So, Lady Mora, take my lay, 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

"Within the bosom of the rose ? 



322 THE DAY-DBEAM. 

2. 

But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humours lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 'twere to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOL 

1. 
Tor shake your head. A random string 

Tour finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 



THE DAT-DEEAM. 323 

On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Eepublics that may grow, 

The [Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
Por we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 



2. 
So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decads new and strange, 
Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 

The flower and quintessence of change. 



3. 
Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
Por, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 

y 2 



324 THE DAT-DEEAM. 

And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
2for finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



4. 
For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken d hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fullness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp' d the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 



THE DAY-DBEAM. 325 



EPILOGUE. 



So, Lady Elora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
whisper to your glass, and say, 

" "What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? " 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail' d birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



326 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbours when they call, 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 



O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 



AMPHION. 



'Tis said he bad a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
"Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 



The mountain stirr'd its busby crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy- wreath 

Ean forward to his rhyming, 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 



The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, 

The bramble cast her berry, 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry, 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 



328 AMPHION. 

Came wet-shot alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pluck' d his one foot from the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine, 

The vine stream' d out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump' d the pine 

Erom many a cloudy hollow. 



And wasn't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree, 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten' d, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten' d ! 



Oh, nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 



AMPHION. 329 

'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

"With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 



But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading : 
O Lord ! — 'tis in my neighbour's ground, 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 

To look as if they grew there. 



The wither' d Misses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travelTd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbours dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 



330 AMPHION. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 



And I must work thro' months of toil, 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I '11 take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



331 



ST. AGNES. 



Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapour goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 



332 ST. AGNES. 

So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

E-oll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



333 



SIB GALAHAD. 



My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrust eth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 



How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favours fall ! 

For them I battle till the end, 
To save from shame and thrall : 



334 SIR GALAHAD. 

But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 



When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 



Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 



SIR GALAHAD. 33 5 

A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like iningles with the stars. 



When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, spins from brand and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Ply o'er waste fens and windy fields. 



A maiden knight — to me is given 
Such hope, I know not fear ; 

I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
That often meet me here. 



336 SIR GALAHAD. 

I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pare lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odours haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armour that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch' d, are turn'd to finest air. 



The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" just and faithful knight of Grod ! 
. Ride on! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm' d I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



337 



EDWAED GEAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 
Met me walking on yonder way, 

" And have you lost your heart ?" she said ; 
" And are you married yet, Edward Gray r 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray, 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; 
Eill'd I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 



338 EDWARD GRAY. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper' d, £ Listen to my despair: 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair !' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

1 Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward Gray !" 



339 



WILL WATEEPEOOFS LYEICAL MONOLOGUE 

MADE AT THE COCK. 
— >— 

O plump head- waiter at The Cock, 

To which I most resort, 
How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers, 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 



No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

z 2 



340 WILL WATERPROOF S 

I pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine, 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

These favour' d lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New lifeblood warm the bosom, 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 



I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master- chord 

Of all I felt and feel. • 

Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 



Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 341 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men, 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 



Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 



Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 



342 WILL WATERPROOFS 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head- waiter, honour' d by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, 
The pint, you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 



For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
"Which bears a season' d brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 



LYRICAL MOKOLOQUE. 343 

For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birth- day coming on, 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 



Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 



The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer' d to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 



344 WILL WATEKPKOOP'S 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 



The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 



A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop' d and clutch' d him, fair and good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 



LTEICAL MONOLOGUE. 345 

But he, by farmstead, thorp e and spire, 

And follow' d with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Eight down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One flx'd for ever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'Tis but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than common ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 



I ranged too high : what draws me down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit (my empty glass reversed), 

And thrumming on the table : 



346 WILL WATEKPKOOF S 

Half fearful that, with self at strife 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fullness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet ; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 



So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather' d up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 



Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces, 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken' d forms and faces. 



LTEICAL MOKOLOaTJE. 347 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamour sent 

From many a tavern-door, 
With twisted quirks and happy hits, 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 



Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Not yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 

He flash' d his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm' d 

His literary leeches. 



So mix for ever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, could'st thou last, 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things should pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



348 WILL WATERPROOF S 

Head- waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 



But thou wilt never move from hence, 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 



We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polish' d tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Eeturning like the pewit, 
And watch' d by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 



LYRICAL MONOLOQUE. 349 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine e yes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 



But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



350 



TO , 

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 



" Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakespeare' 's Epitaph. 



You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 



TO . 351 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

" Proclaim the faults he would not show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 

The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 

A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
Xo public life was his on earth, 

!N"o blazon' d statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 

My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
Por whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



352 



TO E. L., ON HIS TEAVELS IN GEEECE. 

Illteian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Pene'ian pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track' d you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

Eor me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten' d — here and there alone 
The broad-limb' d Gods at random thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads Qar'd 



TO E. L. 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks,, 
To him who sat upon the rocks, 

And fluted to the mornins: sea. 



354 



LADY CLAEE. 



It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Eonald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth' d were they : 

They two will wed the morrow morn ; 
G-od's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee r ' 
" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 

" To-morrow he weds with me." 

"0 God be thank'd! " said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Konald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 



LADY CLAKE. 355 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse r" 
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" 

"As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

mother," she said, "if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

" But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

"But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said " Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

A A 2 



356 LADY CLABE. 

" N*ay now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so, 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Eonald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And follow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Eonald from his tower : 
" Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ?" 



LADY CLAEE. 357 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Eonald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Eonald, 
" Tour riddle is hard to read." 

and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Eonald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh' d a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood: 

" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, "the next in blood — 

" If you are hot the heiress born, 

And I," said he, "the lawful heir, 
"We two will wed to-morrow morn, 

And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



358 



THE LOKD OF BUKLEIGH. 



In her ear lie whispers gaily, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch' d thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

" There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his withoiit reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present ; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand : 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 359 

Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses. 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

"Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order' d gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days, 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 
Than all those she saw before : 



360 THE LOED OF BUELEIGH. 

Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

"When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh ; fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the colour flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp' d her like a lover, 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirits sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 



THE LOED OP BUELEIGH. 361 

That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex' d her, night and morn, 
With the burthen of an honour 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

As she murmur'd, " Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter, 

Which did win my heart from me ! " 
So she droop' d and droop' d before him, 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 



362 



SIE LAUNCELOT & QUEEN GUINEVEKE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapour everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh' d between, 
And, far in forest- deeps unseen, 
The topmost elmtree gather' d green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel' d along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 



SIR LATTNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 363 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Eode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring ■ 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream- white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



364 



A FAKEWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Eor ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
No where by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 



THE BEGGAE MAID. 

Hee arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say : 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ancles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

" This beggar maid shall be my queen !" 



366 



THE VISION OF SIN. 

1. 

I had a vision when the night was late : 

A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 

He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, 

But that his heavy rider kept him down. 

And from the palace came a child of sin, 

And took him by the curls, and led him in, 

Where sat a company with heated eyes, 

Expecting when a fountain should arise : 

A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 

As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 

Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — 

Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, 

Byheaps of gourds,and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. 

2. 
Then methought I heard a mellow sound, 
Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 



THE VISION OF SIN. 367 

Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd, 

Panted hand in hand with faces pale, 

Swung themselves, and in low tones replied ; 

Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 

Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 

Then the music touch' d the gates and died ; 

Eose again from where it seem'd to fail, 

Storm' d in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 

Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, 

As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale, 

The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated ; 

Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 

Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 

Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, 

Flung the torrent rainbow round : 

Then they started from their places, 

Moved with violence, changed in hue, 

Caught each other with wild grimaces, 

Half-invisible to the view, 

Wheeling with precipitate paces 

To the melody, till they flew, 

Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 

Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 

Like to Furies, like to Graces, 

Dash'd together in blinding dew : 

Till, kill' d with some luxurious agony, 

The nerve- dissolving melody 

Flutter' d headlong from the sky. 



368 THE VISION OF SIN. 

3. 

And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn, 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 
From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, 
A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 
Came floating on for many a month and year, 
Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken, 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late : 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, 
When that cold vapour touch' d the palace gate, 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth' d man as lean as death, 
"Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 

4. 
" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 
Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 
Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is past : 
It is long before you wed. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 369 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 
Let us have a quiet hour, 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

"lam old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day, 
When the rotten woodland drips, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 
What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine : 
Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 
Buin'd trunks on w r ither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

B B 



370 THE YISION OF SIN". 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 
Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood ; 
Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 
Kising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime 

Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, 
Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied in the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 
Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 
How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 
Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" ! we two as well can look 

Whited thought and cleanly life 
As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbour's wife. 



THE VISION OF SIN, 371 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 
Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 
Eising, falling, like a wave, 

Eor they know not what they mean. 

" He that roars for liberty 

Easter binds a tyrant's power ; 
And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Eorces on the freer hour. 

" Eili the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Ereedom, gaily doth she tread ; 
In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 
She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 
Of that cap upon her brows. 

bb2 



372 THE VISION OF SIN. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs : 
Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State : 
Drink we, last, the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 
And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Pear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 
Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 
Savours well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 

When thy nerves could understand 
What there is in loving tears, 
And the warmth of hand in hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance ; 
Till the graves begin to move, 
And the dead begin to dance. 



THE YISION OF SIN. 373 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads : 
Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

" You are bones, and what of that ? 
Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 
Is but modelTd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 
Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 
From the fashion of your bones. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire 

In your eye — nor yet your lip : 
All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-plan — 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed: 
Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 



374 THE VISION OF SIN. 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 
Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near : 
What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 

When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 
Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can ! 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man : 
Yet we will not die forlorn." 

5. 
The voice grew faint : there came a further change : 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range : 
Below were men and horses pierced with worms, 
And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch' d with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." 



THE tisio^ or sin. 375 

Another said : " The crime of sense became 

The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 

And one: " He had not wholly quench' d his power ; 

A little grain of conscience made him sour." 

At last I heard a voice upon the slope 

Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope ? " 

To which an answer peal'd from that high land, 

But in a tongue no man could understand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 

Grod made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 



376 



Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou would' st not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, ,being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
E/ing'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



377 



Mo ye eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
0, happy planet, eastward go ; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage-morn, 
And round again to happy night. 



378 



Bbeak, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But for the touch of a vanish' d hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



379 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs. 

But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 



[The second division of this volume was published in the winter of 
1832. Some of the poems have been considerably altered. Others have 
been added, which, with one exception, were written in 1833.] 



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